


Indecent and Decent Proposals

by isamariposa



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Character Study, Happy Ending, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Possessive Behavior, Poverty, Pre-Canon, Protective Older Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-02-01 07:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21432877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: For the Weddingsday Prompt on The Terror Rarepair Week: A Decent (or Indecent) ProposalCrozier makes an indecent proposal to Jopson somewhere on the Southern Seas, and it changes everything.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 92
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2019





	Indecent and Decent Proposals

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I'm determined to only write these two living happily ever after. 
> 
> For the record, Thomas was 23-24 when he joined Ross's expedition to the South Pole, and is about 26 on this fic. 
> 
> There's a fair chunk exploring his family life when he returned to London in 1843, hope it isn't boring. Canon divergent.

* * *

It starts, as most of these things do, with an indecent proposal. 

The year is 1842, the antarctic summer crawls along, and they've been sailing round in circles trying to avoid that goddamned ice wall for weeks that stretch on and on with no end in sight. There's a certain madness, they say, that comes with the latitudes where it's ever daylight. After a pleasant winter in Van Diemen's Land, where company was never for want, the sudden chastity imposed by the sea is jarring, unnerving. Thomas schools his features into a blank face whenever he is near Captain Crozier, masking his unnatural desire with solicitude and denying the warmth pooling in his lower belly. He must think of nothing at all if he happens to notice a strain in the Captain's drawers early in the morning when he dresses him - and sometimes, late at night when he undresses him. The Captain treats it like an annoyance, really, and he lets out an impatient sigh whenever Thomas happens to fumble too much with the trousers. 

The shaving is the worst: having to stand there so near to him, between his spread legs, feeling the warmth of his breath against his cheeks and cupping his face gently as he holds the razor. Thomas doesn't know how he hasn't cut him a hundred times, because he is quite certain his hands tremble.

And no, indeed, shaving isn't the worst: bathing is. Captain Crozier isn't overly fond of baths, preferring a quick sponge off (that Thomas gives him, every morning, except for his private parts that he prefers to clean himself, out of propriety), but every fortnight or so he requests a bath drawn, and Thomas hauls up the tub and the water to the great cabin, flushed with the effort but also with anticipation because this, this is the closest he ever gets to him. The Captain sits on the tub, entire naked. It isn't a large tub, and he doesn't quite fit in it. His legs are slightly raised and his arms stick out, and the awkward angle, well, it leaves the dark area of his crotch rather exposed. It's silly, really, Thomas has seen the Captain's bare dick more times than he can count, most usually when he pisses, but it's entirely different to see it like this, in such close quarters, and in such a relaxed setting. 

Sometimes, they talk: it's easier, then. For a brief moment, Thomas forgets his inappropriate thoughts, and their ranks, and the gulf that divides them as they fall into easy chatter about the most innocuous subjects. Most times, however, the Captain broods in silence, and Thomas must sit next to him and watch him quietly until he's ready to step out, minding that his own breath doesn't become too hitched as his gaze wanders up and down this body weathered by innumerable hardships, some scars crisscrossing like misshapen mends on a worn-out linen. 

The night it begins (and it's only night because the clock says so, but the sun still shines through the cabin with a lazy glow) is one of those quiet times. Thomas has been sitting there watching him in silence, trying to rid himself of his most inopportune erection, especially considering that the Captain himself seems to be afflicted with a similar predicament. Just under the warm water, his dick is half hard, reddish in color, and distractingly thick. 

"Oh, bugger," the Captain mutters, and gives himself a tug under the water.

"Sir?" Thomas squeaks, impossibly fascinated by the gesture, and very aware that if he's asked to move his own arousal will be rather noticeable.

"You've seen me on my seat of ease, haven't you, Jopson? I've never been shy about it and you, bless you, are civilised enough not to comment on it. After that, I don't suppose _ this _ would bother you too much."

"I can step outside, sir, if you prefer," Thomas mumbles, but his eyes follow the hand and the hardening cock it is holding.

"I'd prefer you didn't."

Captain Crozier meets his gaze then, and Thomas feels himself paling and blushing in rapid succession, because never in his wildest dreams did he expect to be the recipient of a look like that coming from him. He's seen it on enough men to know at once what it means. His mouth is suddenly very dry. His secret desire, threatening to spill for weeks, is released with an impish wantonness, like the rush of a fine spirit as the bottle is uncorked.

"Well, I could give you a hand with that, sir," he croaks, shocked by his own boldness.

The Captain looks ill at ease for a brief moment. "I can count on your discretion, I hope," he says, and his voice wavers.

If he were but a few years younger, Thomas would throw himself on his knees and declare his undying love. Instead, he only smiles.

"Of course, sir. I am ever loyal to you. I hope you know that."

"What I'm about to ask." The Captain clenches his jaw. "Is most indecent, I'm afraid. Unchristian. The kind of act that men are hanged for. I'm ashamed to ask this of you. But I'm at the end of my rope here."

"Sir, I am at your service," Thomas says, lowering his voice. "In any way you see fit. I think you'll find I'm not unwilling."

"Are you really?" Captain Crozier whispers, and Thomas leans down to kiss his lips.

It does shock him, the hunger with which he is kissed back. The Captain kisses him like they're at the ends of the world (and aren't they, really, as far south as man can go?) and there is nothing but Thomas's mouth to sustain himself. He's been wanting this for days, for weeks, and now that he is finally allowed to taste his tongue sliding along his, he can't help feeling rather unsettled, flabbergasted: Thomas hadn't realized the depth of his own passion and, oh, he thinks, it will hurt abominably when he's thrown away later on.

For now, however, the Captain steps out of the tub, dripping all over the wooden flooring. He's magnificent like this, erect and wild and intent as he grabs Thomas and kisses him more forcefully, drawing him so close his clothes are soon soaked through and through. His wet hand deftly cups Thomas over his trousers, and for a moment he blanks out as he at last understands that the Captain has indeed slept with men before. That in and of itself is a revelation, because he only ever saw him seeking the company of women back in Van Diemen's Land - discreetly and infrequently. If Thomas had known...! He lets out a most undignified sound as the hand begins rubbing him over the clothes.

"Quiet," the Captain says, and it's not quite his commanding tone, there's a gentleness to it that stuns Thomas into muted ecstasy.

He's only vaguely aware of his trousers coming down, and of being turned and bent against the cupboard. He's touching himself in what seems to be a haze, starving to finish and yet holding on for the promise of a greater bliss. He must bury his face in the crook of his arm when the Captain starts his attempts to slide into him. It's rather unpleasant at first. Thomas clenches his jaw.

"The oil, sir," he manages to say. "The oil for the lamp, if you please."

It's a much smoother ride after that. If only he could let himself go and shout to oblivion. Half a dozen thrusts into him and Thomas is quite done, spilling into his own hand with a muffled moan. Every sensation becomes heightened then, as if a coil about to snap: each of the pushes into him seemingly leaving a searing trail of pain and pleasure inside him. Behind him, the Captain is eerily quiet, and a low grunt is the only indication that he's finished inside Thomas. The sounds of their mingled heaving is deafening in the small room.

"Jopson," the Captain whispers after what feels like a century of silence. "My good Jopson."

"Yes, sir," Thomas mumbles, and winces when he feels him pulling out. "Your Jopson."

Later, when he returns to his quarters, Thomas must resist the urge to laugh into his pillow.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The expedition becomes much more interesting after that.

Thomas expected it to be a rare occurrence, that the Captain would call it a weakness and not indulge in it again, or rather never speak of it at all. There is, after all, a penchant for self-denying in him that Thomas has observed and recognised for what it is. But it becomes quite clear, when he's called to dress him in the morning, that it isn't to be an isolated incident at all. On his knees on the hard wooden floor of the cabin with the Captain's cock in his mouth, Thomas should have known better: he's seen the way he handles his drink, reckless and with abandon.

Not that Thomas has any objection to it, really. He swallows him up like a man starved.

Their routine changes little: Thomas still waits on him and the other officers when they have their meetings, he sees to the food being warm and ready on time, he changes the linens, he lays out the Captain's clothes in the morning, he mends the shirts and irons the uniform, and if there's a moment of quiet in the day he stands at attention right by the door and converses about pleasant matters with the Captain. The only notable change is that either their morning ritual or the nighttime one takes but a little longer from then on. Captain Crozier prefers the morning, Thomas notices, and if he happens to take his pleasure then he spends the day in a rather cheery mood, which is a marked improvement for the rest of the crew. Even Captain Ross remarks that Crozier seems in higher spirits, but he attributes it to their recent success out of the ice labyrinth as they sail along the coast of the frozen continent.

"You shouldn't look at me like that," the Captain tells Thomas one night as he helps him to bed after pumping him dry.

"Like what, sir?"

"Your gaze follows me, all day long. You're going to get us caught."

Thomas cocks his head, surprised. "I've always looked at you like this. It's my job to watch you and to see to all your needs."

"Is it just your job that you're doing?" he asks, and grabs Thomas by the lapel of his collar to pull him down towards him.

He freezes with panic, for a moment, until he realises the gesture is unthreatening: Captain Crozier flings his other arm around his shoulders and hugs him, clings to him, really. Thomas returns the embrace, a little puzzled, and sits on the berth the best he can without disturbing the bedding.

"Surely you've noticed that this is pleasant for me as well," he whispers, into the Captain's hair. It's a little in disarray after their romp, but he'll comb it in the morning, and make him look pristine and polished, just like Thomas likes.

"Is it?" Crozier insists. "Is it?"

"Yes, yes it is." Thomas kisses his top of his head. "I've never been happier, sir," he tells him.

* * *

The only tempest that disturbs his otherwise clear waters is the knowledge that this won't last, especially not when they winter over in the Falklands, where entertainment and women and prying eyes will be aplenty. 

But once again, Captain Crozier surprises him: he rents quarters at an inn the moment they land, and makes it very clear that Thomas is to come with him as his steward, or rather, as his personal valet - a rather superfluous role, because he hardly has the amount or the kind of clothing that would require a valet with him at all times. If anyone is going to get them caught, it's certainly him. But Thomas does go with him, and the little cot they've placed in the corner of the Captain's bedchamber goes unused most days, though he takes great care to rumple the bedding in the morning. It's certainly a different kind of pleasure to lie together in the same bed, even if the inn is hardly the epitome of luxury. But there's more room for playfulness, or for thrashing about and laughing out loud.

Like on board, these stolen moments happen at night or early in the morning, but otherwise Captain Crozier spends his days with Captain Ross and the other officers, and only calls for Thomas if there's any pressing need to attend where they are. There's plenty to do in the Island in the manner of distraction, even in the dead of winter. Thomas befriends Mister Joseph Hooker, the botanist of the Erebus, who is just a year younger than he, and who at twenty-five holds the dubious honour of being the youngest of the expedition. He has the manners of a gentleman but the excitedness of a child as he collects herbs and plants and discovers species not yet known to man. Thomas takes to helping him carry his notebooks on his long walks, and to listening to his babbling. 

"Jopson," Captain Crozier calls him, dryly, one day that he finds them sitting together in the frozen grass trying to unearth a dormant flower. "Come along."

The tone lets him know at once that he's displeased him, but he doesn't quite understand how until they make it back to the inn.

"You're mine, do you hear me?" Crozier says, as he undoes Thomas's trousers. 

"Of course I am," he says, rather unnerved by the fact that this is happening at midday, when the chambermaids of the inn are doing the rooms and could _ hear _ if they so happened to walk by.

"I never want to see you around that man again," the Captain growls. 

Thomas nearly laughs as understanding dawns upon him. His attentions to Mister Hooker, however innocent, have not gone unnoticed. He's jealous. Captain Crozier is jealous of him. Oh, Thomas had no idea he was so wanted. If he was tense before, he relaxes into his grip, letting him manhandle him as he pleases.

"Never, sir," he tells him, swallowing his grin, and no longer afraid. "I'll never speak to him again. I'm all yours. All yours."

The bedding whimpers under their weight as the Captain takes him. The way he kisses him on the mouth, possessive and thirsty, undoes Thomas completely, and makes him consider the idea that he is, indeed, in love with Crozier rather helplessly.

  
  


* * *

  
  


There's a tacit understanding as they sail north to warmer waters that this will have to cease. After all, Britain is not like a ship, or the Falklands. There are laws at home, laws that cannot be skirted around or brushed under the rug. The last time they enjoy each other is along the coasts of France, and there's a certain melancholy to it. When Thomas awakens in his own berth the next morning, his pillow is wet with tears. 

They say their good-byes on the deck in front of all the others as they sail up the Thames, the foul miasmas of London already perceptible in the air.

"Where do you live, then?" the Captain asks him.

"Bacon street, sir. Along Bethnal Green Road." As the Captain gives him a blank look, he adds, "The East End. We moved there after my father died."

"Ah. Right." Captain Crozier pats him on the shoulder, awkward, without any of the naturality he sports when they're alone down in his quarters. "Fare thee well, Jopson. You've been... well, rather wonderful, if I may say so."

Thomas is sure his face is red, and he prays none of the other men notice. He keeps staring at the banks of the river, not daring to meet the Captain's eyes, "Thank you, sir," he says. "It's been an honour to serve you."

"I don't plan on sailing overmuch in the coming years. I was hoping to retire. Get settled."

It feels like being slapped on the face, but Thomas manages to, or hopes he manages to, keep a blank face.

"Get married?" he asks, his voice thin with dread.

"I should hope so," the Captain says, and Thomas makes the mistake of looking at him just then. He looks visibly pained. It seems, for a terrifying moment, that he's forgotten where they stand, and who is watching, and who might hear.

"Jolly good, sir. I wish you all the best," Thomas hurries to say, before either of them does anything they might regret.

Of course Captain Crozier would want to marry. Of course he'd want a home, children. Thomas doesn't know why it wounds him so savagely to hear him say it. 

They're received with a great cheer once they dock, the adventurers at last returned, but Thomas slips away unnoticed from the general merry-making and makes his way home at once. He knows there isn't a moment to spare. In truth, he expected to find their poor old house in a bit of disarray, knowing how ill his mother was when he left her, but he had not anticipated the extent of their fall into abjection. The shabby little flat is dirty, the children are skinny, dressed in rags, and Mum lies on the bed, hands trembling and delirious with laughter. Her laughter is abominable.

"What happened?" he asks Mary, his sister, and the older of them all when he's away. "Did you not get my pay sent here?"

"We did, aye. But she spends it all in her medicine. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn't let me."

Mary is sixteen, and has started working in the ghastly workhouse down the road for pennies a day to feed the others. Charles, thank god, is old enough to be apprenticed somewhere. Thomas would not send him out to sea so young, so he spends a week looking for a shop that would hire a boy of twelve. He finds him a place with a carpenter near the West Indies dockyard. That's nearly all of his wages gone there for the apprentice fee. But Jamie.. Jamie is still a child, not yet seven. He is only bones, quiet and afraid. No one has taught him how to read or write. 

While he nurses his mother back to health with the help of a nursemaid neighbour, Thomas does wonder what to do about the boy should the worst happen. He swore to the Captain he'd never _ see _ Mister Hooker again, but he never said anything about writing to him. Thomas writes, then, asking if there might not be a place for a young maid in any of his family's estates. Hooker answers promptly in the affirmative, as one of his sisters needs one, and then Thomas sees Mary off the next day in a coach headed north. It's raining.

"I'd have rather married you off to a good man," he tells her. "But I'm afraid I don't know any that would be suitable."

"I don't mind," she says. "I hate London."

"Me too." Thomas smiles at her. "Please remember to ask around for a parish or a well-off couple to house Jamie. I'm counting on you."

"I know."

When he returns to the house, there's a note waiting for him, delivered by a boy. The Captain's elegant handwriting looks out of place in their hovel. _ Please come,_ he writes, and has scribbled his address at the bottom of the page. Thomas hesitates. On the one hand, Mum seems to be faring relatively well, finally asleep after a long night of crying. Their good neighbour will stop by in an hour or two. On the other hand, Jamie is staring up at him with a hopeful expression, and Thomas can't bear the thought of leaving him alone. 

The bell of the nearby church is ringing a quarter to nine by the time he makes it to the Captain's address. It's still raining. A housekeeper, old and wiry, opens the door after a great deal of knocking, not too impressed to see someone at this late hour. Thomas freshened up, of course, and is wearing his uniform for lack of something more elegant. (He'd have bought nice clothes, naturally, and would have found better lodgings for everyone, but feeding five mouths on Royal Navy off-wages soon put a damper to his plans.)

"The Captain's upstairs," she says. "Will you be wanting tea?"

"No tea for me, thank you for asking," Thomas answers, bemused to meet his land-side counterpart. "I will enquire whether he would like some and ring for you."

"Eh, I don't think he'll be having any. He's been drinking himself into oblivion since last night."

With that alarming introduction, Thomas climbs up the stairs with a sense of dread. He doesn't knock. He just takes a deep breath and opens the door.

"Get out!" the Captain shouts. "I'm in no mood to hear you, Mrs. Jenners!"

"It isn't Mrs. Jenners, sir," Thomas says, and closes the door behind him. "You sent for me."

Captain Crozier is sitting at the table of the drawing room, his shirt untucked and rumpled, and his hair an ugly mess. He nurses a glass in his right hand, the bottle on the table half empty already. The room surprises Thomas in its spartanness: no pictures on the wall, no decorations, hardly any furniture but a desk. Only the unspeakable mess made by a drunken man with an ill temper. Thomas can recognise dinner leftovers somewhere on the floor. He feels like turning back, but the Captain smiles at him with evident delight.

"You came!" he says. 

"Of course I did," Thomas says, and steps inside the room, picking up dirty linens out of habit as he walks along. "What seems to be the matter here?"

Captain Crozier's smile twists into a scowl. "My plans for marriage have fallen by the wayside, I'm afraid."

Thomas feels a rush of anger to be spoken to about this, the mockery too cruel. He scolds himself not to disgrace himself with this irrational jealousy. After all, this is good news for him, in a twisted way. Is it not? He places the dirty linens on the lone armchair of the room, thinking to himself he'll bring them down to Mrs. Jenners on his way out. 

"Oh dear," he manages to say, gently, and he thanks his stars for sounding so unlike he feels. "Sorry to hear that, sir."

"She won't have me. Pshh."

"Well, there are plenty of respectable ladies in London. You're an eligible bachelor, I don't suppose it'll be too hard to find another one to court, sir."

"Look at me. Do I look like an eligible bachelor to you?"

"No," Thomas says, dryly. "Not when you're looking like this, I'm afraid." Captain Crozier laughs heartily, like a man who's had a bit too much to drink. Thomas keeps his lips pursed in disapproval. "I think that's quite enough for today, don't you think?"

He takes the bottle from him too swiftly for him to react.

"Give me that!" he commands, but Thomas keeps it behind his back. "Give it, you infuriating man!"

"I won't give it back, sir. I think it's time you went to bed."

"Bed! Hm. Yes. That's why I called you."

"To put you to bed?" Thomas asks with a smile. He's exhausted from his long day, but something sings inside him when he hears this.

"Please," the Captain says, and Thomas can only comply.

He helps him undress, enduring his ramblings patiently, as he helps him into bed. It's hardly a larger bed than a ship's berth, which shocks him at first. The bedroom is as bare as the drawing room, with only a tall wardrobe, and a chamberpot under the bed.

"Do you need to use this?" he asks, but Captain Crozier shakes his head no and motions for him to come closer. "Ah, I don't think it's a good idea, sir," he says, stunned, when he finds himself pulled closer by the waistband of his trousers. "It's the middle of London, someone will hear!"

"Nonsense," the Captain says, and slips a hand into Thomas's trousers.

He hardens at once, how can he not? But it shocks him completely to see the Captain sit up and open his mouth, swallowing Thomas's dick greedily and thirstily. They never did this at sea. Thomas was always the one doing the sucking, or the tossing off, or letting him bugger him. He watches, agape, as the mouth runs up and down his cock, leaving it wet from top to bottom. It's rather evident from the lack of rhythm or technique that Crozier has hardly ever done this, but Thomas cares very little, the mere sight of it arousing enough to bring him to the edge with shocking speed.

"Pull out, or," he manages to say, hoarsely, but the Captain does not move back and swallows his seed with a wanton look on his face.

When he gathers his bearings, Thomas sinks to his knees and opens the blankets back to undo the Captain's drawers and return the favour. When he pulls them down, it surprises him, for a second, to find him limp. He holds the flacid cock in his hand, trying to make it harden, but nothing happens despite his efforts.

"I'm afraid you've had too much to drink tonight," he tells him, lightly, unbothered by it (rather endeared, in fact), but when he looks up to see Crozier's face he sees there's trouble abrew.

"I've not had too much to drink, do you hear me!"

Thomas sighs as he straightens. "Of course not," he mutters. He's tired of ill people. He tries to cover him with the blankets, but the Captain kicks them off.

"What are you doing! Finish what you started! Stay!" He grabs him by the wrist so crushingly that Thomas can't help a hiss.

"Let go of me, sir! I'll not have a row with you."

"Stay!" he shouts.

"Enough!" Thomas raises his voice too and presses his free hand to the Captain's chest to keep him down. "We're not at sea, and I'm not your thing to command!"

That seems to stun him into inaction, at least, though Thomas can see a clear flash of pain crossing his gaze. He lets go of him. Thomas holds his own wrist with his other hand: that will bruise, certainly.

"Try to sleep," he says, dryly, and leaves.

His mother's health takes a turn for the worst that very night. At least that keeps Thomas from reliving the fight in his head again and again. Crozier sends him a heartfelt letter the next morning, apologising for his 'abominable behaviour' and begging him to return, but Thomas is far too busy to leave the sickbed. He burns the letter in the uncertain fire of the candle, and tries to put all that off his mind. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It's still raining the day they bury her. Neither Mary nor Charles were able to leave their jobs to come to the funeral, so it's just Thomas, Jamie, and their good neighbour before the unmarked grave. Thomas does cry, but a sordid part of him feels rather relieved that it's over. At least she'll no longer feel pain. Jamie is tired from the long walk to the graveyard, so Thomas has to carry him all the way to their nasty little flat. 

There are two letters waiting for him when he returns, one from Mary and another from Captain Crozier again, but he can't read them until he's cooked something, seen that his brother has eaten, and has scrubbed the flat clean out of the foul smell of vomit, feces, and death. Crozier is growing more plaintive in his letters, and Thomas does mean to write back, but Mary is sending word that she's found a place in the local parish who trains young boys for the clergy. 

It's rather unfair to decide Jamie's life for him this early, but Thomas sees no other solution. He may keep him with himself, of course, but he must return to sea sooner or later to earn money again, and what to do with the boy then? Take him along? He swore to himself he'd spare his brothers the hardship of the Navy while they were children after seeing how ship boys were treated. He isn't sure the clergy is a much kinder world, but Mary will be nearby. He takes the coach north at once. Jamie cries when he leaves him, and Thomas tries to be strong for him.

"I'll come see you," he promises. "I'll bring you all sorts of gifts from the seas."

He makes his way south with a heavy heart. He should find a ship to sail on as soon as possible, to save himself to hassle of finding lodgings for himself, though now that he's alone a simple room will suffice. He supposes he ought to see the Captain before he leaves to at least say good-bye. Thomas holds him no grudge for his drunken outburst, really. But he isn't sure he is strong enough not to let himself be dragged into the kind of fleeting entanglement that would make the years to come unbearable in his absence. The rain has stopped, at last, but the heavy clouds linger above the crowded streets as he makes his way towards Regent's Park. Captain Crozier is the one to open the door, surprisingly.

"Oh, bless you, you're here," he says with evident relief as he pulls Thomas inside.

"Where is Mrs. Jenners?"

"I fired her in a fit of rage. She refused to come back. I do regret it now."

Thomas shakes his head in disapproval as he follows him upstairs. Yes, the state of the drawing room makes it plain to see he has no housekeeper. 

"Serves you right, sir, if I may say so, for having such a temper," he admonishes.

"Yes, I suppose I deserve it." He gestures towards the table, and Thomas takes a seat across from him. "I'd given up hope that you'd come. You're a stern lover, Thomas. I've cried for you more than for any woman to my recollection, and that includes Mrs. Jenners."

"Ah," Thomas says, blushing at this oblique mark of affection and smiling at him. "I apologise for not coming earlier, sir. I had rather pressing family affairs to attend to."

"Family affairs?"

"My mother. She died three days ago." He rubs his face with a hand, and makes an effort to look calm. "I had to see my little brothers and sister spoken for all these weeks."

Crozier reaches for both his hands and holds them between his. "I'm sorry for your loss," he says. "You should have sent word. I could have helped."

"Thank you, sir. It's all been settled now, thankfully. I'm glad I was on land to oversee it all. I should see about sailing off soon."

"Of course." The Captain lets go of his hands. His gaze seems lost for a moment, somewhere very far away from the room. "I suppose it's presumptuous of me to ask if you've forgiven me?'

"It's quite alright, sir. I forgave you the next morning. Think no more of it."

"I think of little else. You were never a _ thing _ for me to command, do you know that?"

"Yes, indeed. I was angry at you, I said that without thinking. Think no more of it, I beg you. Besides," he adds, lowering his voice, "I did like whenever you commanded me."

Crozier's cheeks turn red, surprisingly. "Did you, really," he says, his voice raspy.

"You know I did."

Thomas feels a knot in his throat. Is he supposed to walk away from this man with whom he's been in love for the last, oh, three or four years?

"I have a proposal for you, Jopson," Crozier says, his face still flushed, and now appearing pained.

"A proposal?" He can't help smiling, a little teasing. "Not an indecent one, I hope."

"No, quite a decent one, I think. I've had word from Parry and Ross in the past weeks. There's talk of a new Arctic expedition, to find that elusive Northwestern Passage. Ross and Parry have both declined. They're done with the Arctic, they say."

Thomas's heart jumps. "Are you thinking of sailing in their stead, sir?"

Sailing with him again, for months and months on end, renewing their dalliance with no fear of consequences? _ Please_, he thinks, _ please_.

"No," Crozier answers, unexpectedly. "I did consider it. But that expedition is little more than a sail around the Arctic, running like headless chicken. I never saw evidence of that passage. So if they approach me, I will decline as well."

"Oh," Thomas says, deflated.

"I meant what I told you, on our last day on the ship. I want to stay on land. I'd like a few years of calm. My proposal, Thomas, is for you to stay with me."

"Stay with you? I can't do that, sir. I need to work, earn money."

"I know the state of these rooms belies it, but I do have a fair amount of money. And, as you can see, I am in dire need of a housekeeper," Crozier says, lightly.

"A housekeeper," Thomas repeats, unsure if he should start feeling angry.

"That's what we'd tell people, at least. You'd be my valet, as you were in the Falklands."

"Until when? Until you marry? Must I serve your future wife with equal deference? I'm astonished you're asking this of me."

"Forgive me, I think I'm doing a poor job at explaining what I mean to ask you. I don't intend to marry anymore. That is, I can't marry the one I'd rather have. _ You_, Thomas. I can't marry you, but I can ask you to stay with me. Would you stay, as my companion? I'm afraid I've grown far too attached to you to consider settling without you."

Never would he have imagined this a possible outcome of this visit. Thomas stares and stares at him, searching for any hints of a jest on the Captain's face. But he is as serious as he's ever been. If anything, he looks expectant of his answer. Perhaps even a little afraid. 

"It's dangerous," Thomas whispers. His heart has started beating faster than ever.

"Who would ever know?"

"Anyone. You're reckless," he says, thinking of the incident with Mister Hooker in the Falklands.

"You'll rein me in."

"I don't think I have that much power over you."

"You do, dear boy. You absolutely do. If only you knew."

The way he's looking at him... His eyes dark with want, and yet still pleading. Thomas is starting to feel dizzy.

"You must promise to stop drinking. I'll not watch you waste away drowned in liquor."

"I've tried to quit," Crozier says, plaintive. "It's too difficult."

"But not impossible. That's my only request, if I'm to stay with you. No more drinking."

"_If _ you're to stay with me?"

"Promise me, sir. And I will stay."

"Then I promise."

"That's a fairly decent proposal, if I've ever heard one," Thomas says, and smiles. "My answer is yes, Captain."

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


The year is 1845. When Captain Crozier is approached about the new Arctic expedition, he declines it, declaring it an exercise in futility. His refusal is officially considered eccentric by the Admiralty, but in truth, it is met with relief in those circles, given their natural hesitation to appoint the Irishman in the first place. Those who know him well are not surprised by his hotheaded decision: he's always been temperamental, and his disastrous attempts to court Sir John Franklin's niece confirmed he'd remain a bitter old bachelor. He lives in a small cottage north of London, they say, with only one servant to look after him. He could have still had a brilliant career in the Navy and retired with the highest honours, had he been a little less choleric. 

No one knows the truth. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
